24
by sefie
Summary: A lot can happen during a full day and night at Balamb Garden.
1. 1PM to 2PM

*****

**24**  
** 1:00 PM – 2:00 PM  
** _ "But Why Are the Hotdogs Gone?"_

*****

Zell Dincht's voice finally found its way to his lips.

"Are you trying to tell me that there's no hotdogs left?!" His fists balled up at his sides, his body starting to shake violently as he pivoted from one foot to the other breaking into a fighting stance.

"Yes," replied the cafeteria lady calmly.

"Are you _sure?_"

"I'm positive," she said, wagging a serving spoon towards the sold-out sign, and then saying words which were a dagger through Zell's heart: "Order something else or please get out of line."

He sighed and stepped out of the line, but not before sending a single punch through the air. The lunch lady could have at least saved him one measly hotdog for their best customer.

Their former best customer, anyway.

Taking a seat at the usual table in the back next to his comrades, Zell Dincht decided that he was not going to buy from Balamb Garden's cafeteria ever again; just sitting in it was making him sick. He would rather starve than fork over his hard-earned Gil to the hotdog fascists, instead he'd . . .

. . . Mooch off his friends.

"Hey Selphie, I see that you have two hot dogs on your plate," he said, sliding a gloved hand towards the off-white tray [not so] inconspicuously. "I know such a tiny girl like you couldn't finish two of those. I mean, think of the calories."

"Hey, back off chickenwuss!" She quickly scooted away and, once safely out of his reach, made a show of taking a bite from each one and then licking her lips. "Wow, I swear, these are the best hotdogs I've ever had."

Barely able to contain himself, he turned to Quistis and then promptly looked away in disgust after seeing that all she had was salad.

"Squall?"

Zell received a headshake in response; the garden's commander was too busy shoving hot dogs into his mouth to give a verbal reply.

"Irvine?"

He chanced a glance at where Irvine always sat and discovered that the cowboy was absent.

"Yeah, Irvy said he was feeling under the weather when I talked to him earlier this morning," Selphie said, noticing Zell's questioning look. "He told me not to worry, though, that he'd see Dr. Kadowaki later today . . ."

"Probably had some vodka at last night's SeeD inauguration," Quistis murmured disdainfully, taking a stab at her salad. "Hangovers can be horrendous, he probably couldn't bear the thought of his little 'Sefie' seeing him after being inebriated."

Selphie finished her second hot dog. "I'm sure that's not it, Quistis. You were on everyone like a hawk about underage drinking anyway, it's not like he could've slipped a drink."

"It's bad for you, you know," the instructor continued as her voice changed to a more condescending tone. "I mean, aren't you glad you didn't have any during your inauguration, Squall?"

Somewhat perturbed at being dragged into conversation, Squall shrugged. "Whatever. At least I wouldn't have had to remember you professing your love to me."

The table grew silent aside from Selphie's snickering and Quistis' fork as it impaled pieces of lettuce. Zell stared off into the distance. He was bleakly wondering if he would ever taste another hotdog in his life and his stomach rumbled uncontrollably as he imagined the tasty treat ensconced on a slightly toasted bun and smothered in relish, ketchup, and mustard being handed to him by the pig-tailed girl . . .

*****

Irvine Kinneas stared at the ceiling of his new room as he lay on his bed and thought about last night's ball where Rinoa and he had officially become SeeDs. So this was what being a true SeeD instead of an honorary member was like: bigger rooms, sexier uniforms, and more respect. While the first two were important, more respect was definitely where it was at for Irvine. He couldn't get enough of his new position, he loved walking down the Garden's halls and getting the winks he sent at girls returned to him, even if it was just because of his uniform.

And maybe with more respect and, consequently more confidence, he could finally successfully make his move on a certain female. This was a thought he liked even more than receiving affectionate from random women and also a thought he was planning to put into action this very night.

In fact, he wasn't even the slightest bit sick; he'd just pretended to be when Selphie had knocked on his door so he could prepare for tonight – he needed to set up reservations at the Balamb Café and order a dozen yellow roses. It was the night he was going to tell the girl his true feelings and, unlike the times before, he wasn't going to be interrupted by Squall, he wasn't going to mess it up by checking out other women, and wasn't going to accept anything other than yes. Tonight he was surely going to turn their friendship into something more.

Smiling faintly, Irvine slid off the bed and grabbed absently at the top of his dresser for his cowboy hat. His hand hit the cold surface. His hat was not there. He felt a panicky feeling rising from his chest: Where was his hat? He'd worn that hat for the past six years, he hadn't let a soul touch it except for Selphie; he hadn't even washed it. 

It was his good luck hat and he definitely needed luck for tonight.

"Where the hell is it," he muttered, deadpanning the room, his eyes resting on his alarm clock which read 1:59pm for a moment. "Where _is_ it?"

*****

_ Author's Note:_ Format shamelessly yanked from the series _24_ (which, mind you, I haven't even watched). Twenty-four chapters, twenty-four hours at Balamb Garden with the cast of _Final Fantasy VIII._ Also note that this isn't purely a story about one or two characters; chapters will alternate between telling various subplots thus hopefully sating all fans needs whether one prefers Squall Leonhart, Selphie Tilmitt, Rinoa Heartilly, Irvine Kinneas, Quistis Trepe, or Zell Dincht. – _ selphie@balamb.com_


	2. 2PM to 3PM

*******  
** **24****  
2:00 – 3:00**_  
"Baby, I'm an Anarchist."  
_*****

The words Squall had said to Quistis earlier still stung. She'd tried to swallow the callous remark and its implications, but its claws had sunk into the lining of her esophagus and refused to go down, ripping pieces of her spirit as more effort was applied.

And so it sat there yet, a lump in her throat which was gradually eroding any self-confidence or happiness she possessed.

Quistis Trepe knew it was in Squall Leonhart's nature to be unnaturally cold at times, but she also knew another thing about him: he was never cold to Rinoa Heartilly. _Never_. She knew that Squall would never say a remark like that to Rinoa. She knew that he would rather impale himself on his gunblade, speak in front of large groups, or even kiss Irvine Kinneas than dare hurt her in any fashion. 

. . . She knew that he loved Rinoa and not her.

Of course, she'd always known this. It wasn't an epiphany brought on by today's lunch, the salad hadn't brought a new light on the subject; there had never been any doubt of his feelings after Timber and the botched kidnapping of Vinzer Deling. Maybe there had been for a moment during that mission in the D-District Prison when he'd told her that Rinoa was so naïve, maybe then there was a flicker of hope. And maybe that hope would've been more if she hadn't seen the way he reacted every time the girl was in trouble.

However, she _had_ seen.

Looking out into the sea of Junior classmen she was supposed to be teaching, Junior classmen who were throwing spitballs and practically bouncing off the walls, Quistis sighed and then cleared her throat, swallowing even more self-esteem before speaking.

"Jason, sit in your assigned seat," she paused and glared as a boy rushed to his seat, "Class, today we're going to be talking about Shiva; one of the first Guardian Forces a person is able to obtain . . ."

*****

Irvine Kinneas had searched his entire room and it wasn't there. The only other place he could even think it would be at was with Selphie Tilmitt. That was also the last place he wanted to go. He, someone who was generally fearless, was afraid he would fuck it up by acting awkward or even worse: She wouldn't know where the Cowboy hat was either. 

Still, he had to ask Selphie. It could be something as simple as she took it for the day when she'd come in to see why he wasn't coming for breakfast or had taken it as a joke like she did on April Fool's. He was really freaking out about nothing, anyway – she wouldn't think it was weird if he was looking for his hat, the whole Garden knew it had a lot of sentimental value attached to it, and she wouldn't catch onto his plans for tonight if he played it cool with his trademarked style.

No, she wouldn't suspect a thing.

He walked down the hall about six doors and stopped outside the one he usually waited outside every morning to walk her to wherever. Irvine was about to knock when he heard muffled voices from the inside.

"It's _sooo_ big, Zell!" Selphie sounded genuinely excited.

"Yeah, I hope we don't get in trouble for doing this. I mean, the faculty is—"

"We won't get in trouble, chickenwuss. You ride hover boards all the time, this isn't that much different," she cooed.

"Sef, that's a minor infraction! This is huge," said Zell.

"Well, it _is_ big. I will give you that. Man, Zell, how did you get it this large?"

Irvine, whose mind was beginning to jump to perverted conclusions, angrily yanked open the door and was face to face with . . .

. . . Selphie and Zell, both of whom holding spray cans of red paint and wearing t-shirts with an anarchy symbol on the chest. A large anti-sign over the letters cafeteria was adorning the left side of her dorm.

"Heeey, Irvy," Selphie said, not skipping a beat and adjusting the brim of _his_ hat which was on _her_ head, "Want to help overthrow the Hot Dog Nazis with Zell and me?"

He couldn't really say no to her. Plus, she had his hat.

*****

Squall had just sat down on his bed after about an hour of training in the Training Center when there was a knock on his door. He glanced at the clock before standing up, the neon red letters throwing a 2:59PM at him.

*****

_ Author's Note:_ Sorry for not updating frequently. AP Statistics, Calculus, AP French, AP Literature, Chemistry, and AP US History are requiring all my writing "skills". I am also totally loathing this story at the moment because this is not my good prose, man. This is my "must break writer's block so I can get to the good shit" prose. Boohoo. – _ selphie@balamb.com_


End file.
